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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194932">interlude: little cinder, igniting of flame</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/niuu/pseuds/niuu'>niuu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>interlude: a retelling of fairytales [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cendrillon ou La petite Pantoufle de Verre | Cinderella - Charles Perrault, Cinderella (Fairy Tale), Cinderella - All Media Types, Fairy Tales &amp; Related Fandoms, Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Animal Death, Arson, Changelings, Dark, Fae &amp; Fairies, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:42:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194932</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/niuu/pseuds/niuu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>By day, I am a trembling maiden with flaxen hair and dewdrop eyes who shys away from her tormentors. But, by night, the truth of my nature can be hidden no longer. I speak the language of flowers; understand the pattern of bees; and play with the zephyrs when freed. I know not the name for my kind, but human it cannot be.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>interlude: a retelling of fairytales [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>interlude: little cinder, igniting of flame</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Lines inspired by quotes: </p><p>"You must be taught to love me. Human beings must be taught to love silence and darkness."<br/>— <b>Louise Glück</b>, The Wild Iris; Lullaby.</p><p>"Choose to be changed. With the flame be enraptured."<br/>— <b>Rainer Maria Rilke</b>, tr. by Robert Bly, from Poems; "Sonnets to Orpheus."</p><p>"In raucous solitude the night thrums with voices, speaking words of power no mortal tongue can pronounce. Slip fingers beneath the skin of time and feel the desperate pulse of eternity, ragged and unafraid. Listen, feel. There is nowhere else to be - here falls the sweat, here spills the blood, here strikes the feet amidst dust and soil, calling forth starburst rain and electric fire, igniting the forge that shapes the world anew. Child! Seize upon your vital breath! Ride your lightning-mind into the endless dark and find what you have lost, sown into the very meat of your tender heart. Listen, feel. There is nowhere else to be."<br/>— <b>Unknown</b>.</p><p>" — how dreamlike things are, how skinned of flesh and blood . . . "<br/>— <b>Virginia Woolf</b>, in a letter to Vita Sackville-West [31st January 1927].</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>༄</p><p> </p><p>The mices' pitter-patter brings a facsimile of a smile upon my face as they scamper away from me. How skinned of flesh and bone their kin is once I have had my way with them; the pastiche of ligaments and tissue that hold them together fascinates me — and makes for lovely art when carefully arranged. </p><p>Can you hear their frantic squeaking before my hands wrap around their windpipes like a noose? Tell me, can you hear their little bones crunching as I squeeze? Do you hear it, little dove? How satiating it is? Oh, how it fills me with such euphoria. </p><p>There are few things to amuse myself with when my days are filled with eiderdown mattresses, dust motes on vases, and platters that need to be washed. Soot blackens my feet and grime dirties my face, and so they call me <em>Cinder</em>.</p><p>My stepsisters do not like me; their curls bounce as their tinkling laughter invades the room, and they jeer and hiss at me like wildcats when they catch sight of me. They are lovely little things in the face of nobility and company, but are wicked fiends truly. </p><p>My stepmother would have me dead, yet I refuse to depart from this earth so easily. Much to her vexation, of course. She has found that I am rather hard to kill. Sprigs of nightshade; garlands of hemlock; the sweet, nectarous juice of foxgloves — I lap them up eagerly, and let them languish upon my tongue. A most noxious feasting. </p><p>Neither bread nor salt can be touched by me. The church bells put me into a spell; their raucous ringing is felt down to my very soul. Spoons, forks, and knives are my enemy, their iron a cold bite against my skin. I neither understand nor wish to know why such things affect me and no other. </p><p>Sometimes when I lay by the fireplace, in the sanctity of night, I can slip my fingers beneath time and caress the spate of infinity, the ragged and unafraid pulse of the universe. It thrums with voices that squabble in my head like my stepsisters, speaking words no mortal could hope to comprehend. </p><p>Those moments are precious, hoarded close to my heart like jewels — they are even more valuable than the memories of my cruel hands twisting rodents into intricate pieces of sadistic art.</p><p>I am guileless, full of gaiety and chastity. Don't you believe me, little cuckoo bird? I am fair, bathed in holy light, innocent in the face of my stepmother's treatment. Aren't I the victim here? </p><p>This seraphic smile of mine is nothing against the howling winterstorm of the maids, butler, footmen, and chef. I am just a waif, something to be disregarded and tossed onto the shelf like the porcelain dolls I had so many years ago. </p><p>I am a little sprite who tends to the lilacs and rosebuds, who sweeps the great halls and polishes the marble floors until I can see into the reflection of my past. At night, I catch rats and squeeze, squeeze, <em>squeeze</em> — how else could I combat the tightness in my chest? At night, I prick myself on questing teeth filed into sharp, needle-like points, my mouth a gaping abyss. By day, I am a trembling maiden with flaxen hair and dewdrop eyes who shys away from her tormentors. </p><p>But, by night, the truth of my nature can be hidden no longer. I speak the language of flowers; understand the pattern of bees; and play with the zephyrs when freed. I know not the name for my kind, but human it cannot be. </p><p>My stepmother was the one to teach me to love the darkness and silence. It pulls everything in, including me. With an iron bolt on my door and the rafters full of creeping spiders, I learned only shadow could be trusted, for it was the only one who would remain.</p><p>I cried, locked alone in the dark, stomach shriveled from the lack of nutrition and my hair in tangles, but no tears fell. I shed not a tear that night. Instead, cobweb clotted in my lashes, delicate threads gleaming and white. My hands shook as I wiped them off, letting them cling to my fingertips. Evidence of my inhumanity. </p><p>A ball will be held, to herald the prince's coming of age. Puff sleeves, lace hems, and blooming skirts will adorn my stepsisters, accessorized by my stepmother's glacial gaze as she watches them dance among a constellation of surging people. And I will remain here, swept away into the farthest corners and secluded rooms of the estate. Constant, vigilant, <em>eternal</em>. </p><p>I tire of this dalliance with the mortal realm. Grow weary of being silenced and shunned and not seen. I parry off my stepmother and stepsisters, but it has never been enough. They cannot help but mistreat me; perhaps it in humans' nature to do so to things they do not understand and fear. </p><p>A lone candle flickers. My eyes drift to it. The flame putters, fighting to stay alight. It enraptures me, draws me in. I touch it, letting the flame singe me. Such wildness, such beauty. It cannot be tamed; cannot be curbed. </p><p>My decision is made, and I stand, carrying the candle with me. Light permeates the darkness, my eyes glinting like coins. The manor is silent, hushing its occupants to sleep, yet I do not let its soporific quality lull me away. There is too much to do. </p><p>I open the windows and set everything to flame. The wind helps, carrying the embers and letting them settle on the linden wood. Everything must burn, but I refuse to burn with it. </p><p>Their screams echo, howling like a storm. I stand outside, feet bare against dew-laced grass, and watch as the manor burns and the sun rises. </p><p>The empyrean domain where sky meets land is where the moon lives, a cluster of stars keeping it company. Golden bands of light peek out over the copse of magnolia trees laden with blossom, warm and runny like an egg. </p><p>A weather-beaten hand rests on my shoulder and I turn, leaving behind the smell of ash. A tall woman cloaked in deep lake shadows and blue cloudbursts greets me. Her face is kind and crinkled with laugh lines; her hair white as fresh-fallen snow. </p><p>"Little cinder," she chimes, her voice a symphony of birdsong and creek babbling. "How do thee fare?" </p><p>I turn to her and a facsimile of a smile graces upon my fair countenance. Her eyes twinkle with knowing, and I open my mouth and speak the language of infinity. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feedback and criticism are always welcome and in fact are encouraged. I honestly can’t believe I have to say this, but trolling and straight-up hate and negativity will not be tolerated. This may be fanfiction, but if you don’t have actual constructive criticism to give me and are just here to hate, I’m going to have to ask you to not read my works or refrain from commenting at all. Let’s all be civil people here.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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